


ghost light

by parsleyseedsintheinfirmary



Category: The Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue Series - Mackenzi Lee
Genre: Ghosts AU, M/M, Modern AU, Mostly Fluff, drinking mentions, shitty parents, watch me try to figure out how to tag this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:00:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28393506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parsleyseedsintheinfirmary/pseuds/parsleyseedsintheinfirmary
Summary: He had never been to the theater the show was to be performed at. He had heard strange stories about said theater. Stories of abnormal sounds, and objects that moved by their own accords across the dark mahogany stage. Stories twisted through means of conspiracy and time. Monty was never one to give up on a good ghost tale, even if he was well aware that they were mostly untrue.orMonty finds some secrets in the new theater he's performing at.- — ✶ — -Thanks to pjobroadwayslut14 for beta-reading this and making sure i don't make a complete fool of myself :)
Relationships: Henry "Monty" Montague/Percy Newton
Kudos: 3





	1. 1

The morning was painfully bright, as they always were. Sunlight trickled through the curtains as the sun edged gradually higher. Monty had never been a morning person. He cracked open one of his eyes, forcing himself to glance in the general direction of his alarm clock. Glaring red numbers answered the unasked question. It was 8:40 am. Monty twisted round to face the wall. He happened to belong to an actor’s group, and they were performing The Phantom of the Opera in the Grand Eleftheria. Rehearsals started today, and while Monty did love his acting career with all of his heart, he couldn’t help but despise the rehearsals. Whoever set them this early in the morning truly deserved to burn, in his opinion. By 8:52, he was standing barefoot on the frigid tiles of his bathroom floor, staring his reflection in the eyes as the longest hand on the wall clock behind him slowly passed round. He looked exhausted. He was exhausted. There were empty bottles strewn across the floor, the caps glaring at him from a pile of regret and clothes next to the bathtub. His apartment wasn’t of poor quality – of course, it wasn’t, his father paid for it – it was more Monty himself that was. One day, he swore to himself, he would move out and never have to lounge in its corporate misery any longer. Frost from the early January months coated his window and it was early enough for the sun to still be rising. Monty rubbed weariness out of his eyes. He was never getting up early ever again.   
He had never been to the theater the show was to be performed at. He had heard strange stories about said theater. Stories of abnormal sounds, and objects that moved by their own accords across the dark mahogany stage. Stories twisted through means of conspiracy and time. Monty was never one to give up on a good ghost tale, even if he was well aware that they were mostly untrue.

The night’s chill had settled into his car. It was considerably less cold than outside, but still really bloody cold. Monty felt his fingers gradually go numb as he gripped the driving wheel and silently noted to buy gloves at some point. He also noted to change his tires, as the roads were covered with ice and his driving was already dangerously poor, as Felicity loved to point out. She had refused to let him drive her anywhere for the past few years. It wasn’t like he was exactly offering anyways. The windows were foggy when he glanced out at them, but he could still see the outlines of pine trees that lined the road. The sky was a light shade of pink, flooding the morning with the hopeful light of a winter’s dawn. Piles of discoloured snow had been shoved mindlessly out of the way of the cars; however, the road, grey and dead, was still covered by a slight dusting of snowflakes. It was as if Monty was travelling through some supernatural landscape of a toddler’s creation. By the time he arrived at the theater, he was far beyond what could be considered fashionably late. The theatre was one of those old ones, he silently noted. Not as sleek or comfortable as some of the other ones he had been through, but it still held the steadfast charm of something that had seen over 3 centuries. Monty could see why so many tales of ghosts had formed themselves inside the unyielding walls. To his slightly guilty joy, he found that one of the side doors to the west of the hall was still unlocked. He was able to find his way to the main stage quite quickly, a proud jut of land facing out towards a sea of those trevira seats you find in stiff and pretentious music halls. Each tier of seats was decorated by a layer of gold, accented every now and again with a pattern of lamps and statues of infantile angels, naked and adolescent, forever joyous in their still form. The light barely touched the highest level of seats. Anything could be perched up there and there was a strong chance the actors would have never known.

Scipio gave Monty a look when he ran in through one of the wings to the stage. “Late again, Montague?” 

The younger man hid a slight flinch behind a snort, “Late as always, darling.” He stopped to strap his phantom’s mask to his face. “You know time has never applied to me. Besides, I can’t have missed much. I’m only-” He started, flicking his wrist up to check his watch “Ah. 20 minutes late. In my defence, I took longer than expected to get out the door.” 

Scipio simply raised an eyebrow in response, “At least you aren’t the latest.” There was a slight tone of worry in his voice, so slight that someone wouldn’t have picked up on it unless they were well experienced in perceiving Scipio’s tones. The rehearsal proceeded as usual after that. For the time being, the process was a series of stopping, starting, and referring to script sheets. As the minutes passed by, Monty found that he was enjoying wearing the mask more than he had originally anticipated. The accessory happened to fall over the right side of his face, where a battlefield of burn scars made their way from his ear outward, stopping just short of his right eye, and the phantom’s mask happened to cover it all. The scarring had been the product of a conflict with his father, but to the outside world, it was an ‘incident with mishandled bleach’. Something only Monty could ever be blamed for. His father had a reputation, after all, a reputation set in calloused and cold.

Another few minutes passed before someone else rushed in through the wings. Ebrahim. He smiled, a tint of guilt clear in his face. Scipio shot him a look. Not the same look he’d shot Monty, more concerned. It wasn’t in Ebrahim’s nature to turn up. “Traffic. The roads are icy.” he shrugged. He crossed the stage to sit with the other off-scene actors. “Who have we got upstairs? I didn’t know we had violin players today.” Scipio looked up from the sheet of paper in his hands, “Violin players? We’re the only people here apart from the caretakers.” Ebrahim blinked at him absently, “No, I definitely heard violin on my way in here. It was just up the stairs.” The other man looked confused for a second, “Nope. No violins. I’m putting my bet on it being wind or floorboards or something along those lines; this building is old. Now if we’re ever getting through this scene we need to concentrate. From the beginning again” the group groaned, clearly unwilling to start the struggle over again.

\- — ✶ — -

Eventually, Scipio got tired of having to correct and smooth out the seemingly endless mistakes the small cluster was making and called for a break. Without thinking, Monty stepped out into the hallway where Ebrahim had entered through. It looked just as old as the rest of the theatre. 

Wallpaper with ornate tales of spirits, tragedies, beasts, and betrayals hung on the wall. The floor was covered with a thin red carpet that Monty could easily assume had once been a luxury. The same lamps that projected out from the arcs beneath the seats had been installed along the hallway. As Monty wandered aimlessly along, he heard it. The distinct voice of a violin. Carefully, Monty tried to find where it was coming from. It seemed to be beyond a single door embedded in the wall to his left. It was built of the same material of the stage, a dark evergreen wood. As Monty approached it, he weighed his choices. There was a strong likelihood that he was not actually allowed to touch this door, let alone go through it. It wasn’t as if he cared, of course. He was only really concerned at his chances of being caught somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be. His hand rested on the doorknob as he listened out for footsteps or conversation before giving it a sharp tug. The door was unlocked. Now that was just begging someone to come in and take a look around. There were no lights on beyond the door, so Monty pulled out his phone instead. The hallway here didn’t look much different to the one before, much to his disappointment. The violin hadn’t stopped, it echoed along the hall, setting Monty on edge. He glanced back outside the first hall, only to be greeted by the sight of the door to the stage opening. He shut the door hastily. He wasn’t exactly planning to get caught. It looked as if he was going to find the source of the violin for the next 30 minutes. He had to admit, the theatre looked significantly more ominous in the dark, as they usually do.

The song led him to a door on the far side of the corridor, the walk felt an awful lot longer than he had first imagined it to be and the walls either side of him felt as if they were getting gradually older as he walked. Pressing his ear against the wood, he listened out for anything else besides the instrument, almost as if he were trying to scour for reassurance. It seemed as though the musician was fully occupied. This door looked stiffer than the other one, and Monty found himself hesitating again to open it. He wasn’t exactly socially inept; he just knew it might be hard to explain why he was lurking around in corridors and sneaking up on people playing music in the dark. But at the same time, he would much rather explain to a random musician than Scipio. He pressed down on the handle, having to shove the door with his shoulder to get it to open. The playing through the walls stopped, replaced by a seemingly unearthly silence instead.

The room on the other side was even darker than the hallway. It was also, apparently, empty. That was until Monty made to shine his phone across it. He didn’t quite believe what he saw. Sitting- no, floating about a foot off the centre of the floor a man around Monty’s age was settled. He was a tall man, with dark skin and hair tucked back into a knot behind his head. A violin was floating in somewhat close proximity to one of his hands. Although he looked like an everyday stranger, something about him seemed alarmingly abnormal. Maybe it was the fact he was hovering a good amount above the floor. They stared at each other, he was dressed ridiculously, in clothes that dated back to roughly 300 years ago. Monty would have laughed if he couldn’t feel a league of goosebumps prick the back of his neck and arms. Instead, he let out a half-hearted giggle that fell short after a single syllable. The other man looked notably more frightened than Monty thought he himself did. He blinked, and Monty then found he was staring into nothing. The space where the man had once been was now just as empty as the rest of the room. Almost instinctively, he jumped back into the hallway. Surely, his eyes must be betraying him. The light on his phone flickered as he swallowed down a growing sense of unease. He tore away from the doorway and managed to make it out of the first door without being spotted. 

There was no one in the hallway to the stage, so no one was there to witness Monty as he coursed towards the stage door before having to compose himself, so he didn’t attract any attention when he walked in.  
The eyes in the room flicked up to him as he walked in. “You alright, Monty? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Monty turned.“You know what-” he started, before remembering what he had just done wasn’t exactly entirely legal, “You know what? Never mind. A ghost? Well, that’s weirdly fitting. Next thing you know there’ll be chandeliers dropping straight off the ceiling.” Monty snorted, running a hand through his hair. He was probably making it all up. Ghosts weren’t real and never would be. However, as Monty stared up to the balcony seats, they seemed to be almost completely enveloped in the natural creeping darkness that old buildings seem to always have, he couldn’t help but wonder. To wonder as to what had happened within these walls, wonder about the stories in the wallpaper, the dark rooms, and the shut-off corridors. His mask was handed to him, and he scanned the auditorium one last time before putting it on.

\- — ✶ — -

By the time the group had finished for the day, the sun was already somewhat settled beyond the horizon. Scipio had given Monty a key before he left. A key to the side door, so if he weren’t as lucky as to have the caretakers forget to lock the door in rehearsals to come, he wouldn’t be stuck outside. He stuffed it into his bag before walking out of the building, at least, that’s what he intended to do. Instead, he stopped just before the door in the left wall. He turned to face it with a sharp breath in. Faltering before he managed to open the door again, he braced himself for another bout of fear. The lights were once again off in the passage, prompting Monty to take out his phone again. There was no violin this time, but he knew where he was going. He must have been mad. There was nothing to be seen here. He was breaking rules for the sake of it at this point. The door was cool and quiet as he rested his palm against it. He had not the slightest idea of what to expect anymore. Would there be teeth? Tentacles? Tails? Severed fingers or staring eyes? Would something grab him? Would he be able to run? Who would hear him if he yelled? Who would care? Would he be scared or brave? Would he run? Would he even be able to? Was anything there in the first place?

Monty expected many things. He gave the door a tepid kick and stumbled back a few inches, covering his eyes with his arms. A few seconds passed before he raised his head. The sight that greeted him was unusual, to say the least.

The room was the same. Just as dark and dusty as it was the last time he came in. Monty’s attention, however, was more drawn to what stood in the middle. The same spectre that he had seen the last time. It was peering at him, a look of mixed confusion and worry on its face. Monty blinked and took another step back. The apparition straightened and tilted it’s head, offering a lopsided smile. Monty lowered his arms slightly and stepped forward.  
“What are you?’’

\- — ✶ — -


	2. 2

“A- what? What do you think I am?” It straightened its head and looked straight at Monty. “I really doubt it’s that hard to guess.”

When met with nothing but a confused look in response, it took a step forward, 

“A ghost. I am a ghost.”

“Wait, so you’re dead?”

The apparition pulled a slightly perplexed expression. 

“I’m a ghost. Of course, I’m dead.”

“Oh.”

The two stood in silence for a few seconds.

“Well, this conversation is a little less absolutely terrifying as I expected it to be.” Monty straightened himself, slightly lifting his chin in a futile attempt to look braver than he truly was. His phone’s flashlight flickered again as it was pointed to the ground. The ghost snorted. 

“So, let me guess. You were brutally murdered in the dead of the night and now only exist to give righteous retribution to your murderer?” 

“Not in the slightest,” it dismissed, tipping its head to the side and smirking.

Monty stepped forward. “Why’d you talk like that?”

“Talk like what?”

Monty waved his hand around, racking his brain for the right way to articulate his thoughts.“I don’t know, you just sound posh I guess.”

“I’m not exactly from today,” the ghost said as if that was the most obvious thing in the world. “You sound just as strange to me.”

“Are you going to try and kill me?”

The ghost faltered slightly and opened its mouth to say something before closing it again. It reminded Monty of a gaping fish.

“Well, I’m taking that as a no,” Monty smiled. “Now we’ve got that cleared up, I’d like to introduce myself.” 

He edged closer, cautiously extending his hand up towards the phantom.

“The name’s Monty Montague.”

The ghost moved forward to take his hand but found it just phased straight through. Monty shivered: it was as if someone had delved his hands into a bucket of ice water, just less wet. The ghost stifled a laugh at Monty’s dishevelment before speaking.

“Percy Newton. Uh, that’s me, I’m Percy Newton.”

“Yeah, I figured.” Monty pulled his hand back and rubbed it on his shirt, attempting to bring some feeling back into it. “So you’re the one who never stops playing that goddamn violin, huh?”

Percy put his hands on his hips. “And you’re the one sneaking around after-hours in places you’re not supposed to be?”

Monty lifted his head “That was uncalled for.”

“What a shame that it's true. Is it not?.”

“I came here to figure out the big secret about the theatre, not to be scolded by its resident hanger-on,” Monty jabbed.

Percy laughed again, angling his head to the sideways and grinning at him. “Fair enough. But you’re not going to find anything here. I have no secrets to share.”

“Everyone has a few secrets at least. How’d you die?”

“Wow, that’s a little personal, don’t you think?” Percy joked.

A buzz from Monty’s hand grabbed both of their attention. He glanced down at it and read a text from Jeanne, warning him about the rainy weather. When he looked back up, Percy’s face was all scrunched up, eyes fixed on the phone.

“Excuse my language, but what the fuck is that,” Percy asked, pointing to the phone.

Monty huffed 

“It’s a- it’s a phone, not that you-” Monty huffed in frustration. “I have to go. The next rehearsal we have is in two days. I’ll see you then.”

“Oh. Goodbye then.”

Monty looked behind him after opening the door, hand on the knob. All he saw was a dark, empty room. No hovering spirits to be found. He drummed his fingers on the door frame before closing the door. 

\- — ✶ — -

The air was cold as it hit Monty’s face. It was colder than when he’d stepped out in the morning. Thin sheets of snow were falling from the sky, but he couldn’t be fooled by its serenity. It would be snowing considerately harder in about half an hour or so, something he was absolutely sure of. He was glad he’d left when he had, or he would have been caught in a blizzard. It wasn’t exactly in his nature to keep Felicity updated about his life events, but he deemed finding a real ghost in a theatre important enough to tell her.  
He connected his phone to his car's bluetooth. Ringing ran through the speakers a couple of times before she picked up. “Monty?” Felicity asked. Her voice was loud, so Monty turned the volume knob down.

Monty grinned to himself as he pulled out of the lane leading onto the theatre.

“Hey, Feli. You are never gonna guess what just happened.”

“Oh god, did you get arrested? If so, that’s your fault entirely and I should not be entitled to-”

Monty rolled his eyes. “Me? Arrested? Why on earth would you ever think that?”

“I can give you a list of reasons right now if that’s what you want.”

“I think I’ll have to pass.”

She sighed heavily on the other side of the line. “What happened then?”

“Y’know that theatre that I was performing at? The Eleftheria?”

“Monty, what did you do?”

“Stop interrupting me for once and I might tell you. I saw a ghost there.”

There was a brief pause in the conversation before Monty heard Felicity’s sharp laughter cut through the line. “A ghost? Really? You know they aren’t real, right?”

“Oh, he was very real indeed. He told me his name and everything.”

“Sure he did.”

“God Felicity, for once in my life I’m actually telling you what happened and this is what I get in return? This is mistreatment. Next thing you know, I won’t be calling you at all.”

“For some strange reason, I doubt any of that is true.”

Monty sighed dramatically, pulling into one of the roads closer to home. The snow had been getting progressively stronger as the minutes had passed. It came down like rain now. 

“You’ll see, Felicity Montague.”

“I’m sure I will,” Felicity dismissed before ending the call.

By the time Monty got to his apartment, there was a steady and growing coat of snow covering the parking lot. After the relative comfort of the theatre, the apartment was always an unpleasant shift in environments. The place looked nearly as dead as the greenery surrounding it. He would have never chosen to live here, but - of course - he wasn’t offered the choice. Only his father could stand to live in such a melancholy and organized building. He wasn’t expected to live here for his whole life. It was more a prison designed to keep him within the reach of his father until he managed to beat the rest of his passion for life out of him. And then Monty would be forced to live a life just as sad and boring as the apartment complex itself. Settle down with a woman so mundane he’d want to either throw up or blow his brains out every time he had to talk to her. Maybe he would have a house like his father’s, cold-hearted and too empty for comfort. A job like his, too. A job where you come in every morning and decide who’s life you’re going to ruin next. He would probably just become a direct copy of his father in years to come. They had the same face. Same eyes, same dimples, same nose, and in due time, the same mind. 

By the time Monty got to his room, he was starving. He chucked his coat on the floor with little to no regard as to where it fell and began fishing around for something even vaguely edible to eat. His drawers were nearly empty save from a few packets of noodles and cereals. His fridge was no better, only being occupied by a single carton of milk and a couple of beer cans, one of which was half empty. He curled his lip at the thought of having cereal for dinner for the fourth day that week, so he settled for a serving of noodles instead. The kitchen island was small and mostly covered with letters, empty bottles, bills and a few random articles of clothing. There was only a small space for him to sit down and set his plate on. And so, with the light from underneath the kitchen wall cabinets - since he couldn’t be bothered to turn on the main ones, Monty Montague spent a solid two or so hours consulting the script he was given before rehearsals started with only a lukewarm plate of noodles and his phone by his side.

\- — ✶ — -

His meal was interrupted by a bright sounding pop song. His phone was ringing. He smiled, expecting it to be Jeanne asking him how the rehearsal went but felt his stomach go cold as he saw the contact name.

He took a deep breath and accepted the call, putting it on speaker. “Hello, father.”

“Henry. I see you still haven’t got a job.”

Monty groaned, pressing his fingers to his temples and squeezing his eyes shut. 

“Do not make sounds like that when I address you,” his father snapped.

He would have been able to take it if his father’s tone was sneering. That would have meant that there was no force behind his words. But his father’s tone was cold. Cold and unsympathetic. As it always had been.

“I hope you remember the chance I have given you. The very fact that you’re still here, jobless and in an apartment that I’m giving you out of the virtue of my own heart, is because of this chance, Henry. And I am fully capable of revoking all of it.”

Monty could hear the unfeeling fury behind his voice. He could almost see how his father’s face twisted with the disgust of the sight of him, the smell of alcohol on his breath. He stood up, taking the phone off the table and balancing it on his shoulder, pressing it there with his ear. He was too sober for this conversation.

“If you fail me again - a likelihood that I fully anticipate - by not being able to acquire yourself even the simplest of jobs, I will be forced to take matters into my own hands.”

Monty opened a glass door.

“You will not be granted an opportunity like this again.”

The majority of the bottles had been opened already. A clear bottle half full of vodka sat on the shelf at his shoulder level.

“I have to say, when I let you off the hook for all of the shame you have brought onto me and your mother, I knew you wouldn’t be able to fix anything.”

The glass door swung shut behind him. He rested his back against the sink and set his phone on the floor.

“I knew that you would still prove yourself to be as much of a humiliation as you have proved yourself to me these few years.”

The cap came off with ease in his hands. He had a knack for getting bottles open with his hands and a ring. A knack that came from a lifetime of experience.

“And here we are, Henry. I am trying to give you a chance, an opportunity.” He paused. “I’m no idiot. I know you would never stay silent on a call to me. You’re getting drunk, aren’t you?’

The liquid burned his throat as he brought the bottle to his lips, making his way into the bathroom. His father took a breath. His voice came through the line, hateful and sharp. Horribly clear in comparison to the rest of the call.

“Every single goddamn day, you make yet another mindless mistake that I and your mother have to fix for you. I feel more shameful every single time I hear your name in conversation. Do you think you even begin to deserve the family name? It is a miracle performed by my hand that you aren’t on the streets yet. It’s a miracle that I am still extending my hand to you to fix you for good. I spend all of my time waiting for whatever new burden you create for me. That is the only area of your entire life that you’ve ever excelled at. You’re a disappointment and a failure, Henry. Never, even for a second, believe that you are or will ever be anything more than that.”

Monty held his breath, a sob threatening to erupt from him if he didn’t. The bottle he was drinking from was balanced precariously on the side of his bathtub.

“You have a month to fix this. I assume you know what I will do if you fail me again. Do you understand?”

Monty hung up before he could answer.

The bottle lost its balance and lurched forward, smashing and spilling its contents all over the shiny tiles. The smell hit him immediately. He coughed, alcohol fumes weren’t exactly pleasant. He tipped his head back before the top of his head bumped against the base of the sink. Hot tears dripped down the side of his face. Monty stayed like that for a few minutes, crying in the pitch darkness of his bathroom, until he stood up and switched the lights on in order to leave without stepping on anything sharp or wet.

Monty ended up considerately more than half-drunk that evening.

\- — ✶ — -


End file.
